


Stuffed

by wolfferine



Series: The Grand Adventures of Tracer and Widowmaker [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Speed Write, whoops!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfferine/pseuds/wolfferine
Summary: Tracer finds out Widowmaker's dirty secret.





	1. Chapter 1

So, she thought it was all over.   
  
She thought she could simply shoot Mondatta in front of me, kick me against a wall and then jet away on a plane like nothing even happened— _mission accomplished, good job Widowmaker_. Well, she was dead wrong.  
  
Dead wrong.  
  
If she'd thought it was over, she definitely has another think coming, because I’m onto her now. Literally. I knew she would still be in London hours after the shooting. The Talon aircraft she’d escaped on was not meant for long distance travel—which meant it was only supposed to be a quick getaway vehicle; which meant the spider was still crawling around somewhere in Greater London.  
  
Honestly, tracking her down wasn’t all that difficult to do. Wasn’t all that difficult at all, considering the millions upon dozens of surveillance cams littered throughout the city. It had helped too that Widowmaker was careless enough to turn up somewhere populated. Oxford Circus, for that matter.   
  
But more specifically, can you guess where, _exactly_ , I'd found Widowmaker? Seriously. Can you guess where I'd found her?

 

* * *

 

  
  
“Cheers love!” I’m screaming loudly as I whip out my holophone from my jacket's pocket. There’s a flash, a snap, and I’ve successfully taken a thumbs-up selfie with Widowmaker caught in the background—ass sitting pretty on a red plastic chair—with her mouth wide open in the midst of biting into a Big Mac.  
  
“I can’t believe this! I’ve got you now!” I’m giggling wildly as I quickly post the picture on my public InstaGrumps account for the world to see.  
  
The caption reads: Internationally wanted assassin **WIDOWMAKER** caught stuffin’ face at MackyD’s! :P  
  
Barely 10 seconds after the picture is posted, and I’ve already gotten a few thousand likes. It looks like Hana has shared the picture on her social media pages too. Maybe that’s why it has blown up (I'm new to Insta, only have about 400 followers at this point).  
  
“Look love! Look how _popular_ you are!” I’m grinning really wide as I blink over to where Widowmaker is sitting near the back of the Mcdonald's joint, shoving my phone into her face as I show her the picture with all its likes and comments.  
  
“Look, look! Someone just commented that you are really photogenic love!” Then, squinting, I try to make out the rest of the words in the comment. “Really photogenic… albeit a little… a little sick lookin’—welps! I think that just might be due to your unnaturally bluish skin tone, amirite? Can’t quite be helped… ooh wait—look now, someone else is askin' if you've been filtered. LOL!—I should really reply to that—“ I bring the phone up to my face as I start typing furiously: “Nope! Widowmaker sure ain't filtered or anythin’ like that! She really is that blue! It’s au naturel y'all! Her natural skin tone! As to why she is  _like that_ , well... beats me... you’ve gotta ask Talon for that one…;))"  
  
Next to me, Widowmaker has slowly put down her burger (with two extra meat patties and three extra cheese, no vegetables, I notice. Must be special order) until it’s now resting on the standard Mcdonald's plastic tray.  
  
“You really shouldn’t have done that.” Her voice is low and quiet as she says this. Somber, almost.  
  
“Aww cheer up, French fry! It’s really not that big of a deal!”  
  
In the television at the corner of the joint, the red glaring words ‘Breaking News’ flash up on the screen, alongside my blown up selfie of me giving a thumbs-up, with Widowmaker behind me eating a big mac. The screen proceeds to zoom in on her, with her mouth wide open, before subsequently panning back to the news anchors as they sit down to interview an anti-terrorist expert.  
  
“You really shouldn’t have done that chérie.” Widowmaker is saying now. Her voice sounding a little choked up, a little sad. I turn around to look at her. Her face looks cramped, almost as if she’s about to cry.   
  
I wonder why. “Relax! It's not that bad of a picture! Besides, these things will blow over in a month…”  
  
“You don’t understand.” She cuts me off, picking her burger back up with both hands as she studies it intently—glaring at it, her eyes watery.  
  
“What don’t I understand?”  
  
“You don’t understand that Talon has imposed a very _strict_ diet regime for me. If they find out I’m here, what I’ve been up to in my free time…“ Widowmaker’s voice trails off and she noticeably stiffens. “Do you even know how deprived I’ve been the whole while…? If Talon finds out I’ve been falling off the wagon and eating fast food every opportunity I’m out on my own, it would mean compulsory sessions of reconditioning. A _whole lot_ of reconditioning.” As she says this, she bites down savagely into her beloved Big Mac—one bite. Two. Three—almost as if she's trying to stuff herself full before she no longer has the luxury to do so.  
  
I feel a sudden rush of sympathy (and guilt) for the Talon operative.  
  
“Well love. Um, why don’t you just quit then?”  
  
“Quit Talon? Where will I even go?”  
  
“Overwatch?”  
  
“Why will I do that?”  
  
“Well. We have a Mcdonalds back at base for starters? I’m sure you can eat as much of that as you want.”  
  
Widowmaker shoves what’s left of the burger into her mouth, before reaching out for the double-chocolate upsized milkshake to her left. “I vill fink abuff fis, shery.” She tells me, her mouth full and chewing. “Aft weel fink fufu fis.”  
  
God, the woman has never looked or sounded more sexy.


	2. Chapter 2

“Cheers love! The calv’ry’s here!”

When Widowmaker opens the door of her swanky high-end hotel room in Prague, her face is one of utmost dismay, almost as if it might collapse on itself at any moment.  
  
“ _Nom de Dieu_ ,” she eyes me for a second, before squeezing them shut and placing one hand on her forehead. “ _Bordel de merde_ ,” she groans. “ _La vache_ ,” her head tilts back as she looks up at the ceiling.  
  
“ _Calv’ry’s 'ere_!” I repeat, my grin stretching wide and showing far too much teeth to be pretty.  
  
“How did you find me?” She glares. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Ain’t it obvious what I’m doin’ ere love!” I’m saying this as I hold up seven packets of brownish doggy bags, all with the trademark yellow M stamped on the front.  
  
“I didn’t know you now work for Mcdonalds' Delivery.” She deadpans.  
  
“I don’t! But Overwatch’s audio scan picked up your voice pattern from civilian frequencies when you placed your order! Doesn’t take much to jet right on over and intercept!—You know love, you gettin’ a wee bit sloppy with this whole Mcdonald’s deal. Wee bit sloppy. Anyway, food's getting cold—can I come in?”  
  
“ _Non_." She folds her arms and blocks the door. "You cannot come in. You stay here outside. You pass me my food and you go away.”  
  
“Nope. Nope nope,” I blink up at her, still smiling. “Either I get invited in, or you don’t get ya paws on these babies.”  
  
Widowmaker stands there, stiff as a corpse in a coffin. Her eyes bore daggers into mine, they dart over to the seven doggy bags I clutch tight in my hands, and then back at me again, as though weighing her options.  
  
I see her fists clench and unclench. I see her shoulders tense up. Her feet starts to spread apart just the slightest, and she seems to be bouncing a little on their balls. _Uh oh_. I know that stance well. I know what she’s about to do, what she’s thinking of doing.  
  
She’s planning to _snatch_.  
  
“Nuh-uh,” I shake my head at her. “Don’t even—“ I lift up a hand (still clutchin’ the bags) and wiggle a finger. “Don’t you even try! If you so much as point a _finger_ in my direction, love, I’m throwin' all these on the ground ‘n’ stompin' till high noon. Try me! I can blink faster than you can punch—your call, love!”  
  
A tense moment passes where I stare at Widowmaker, and Widowmaker stares back at me.  
  
_Finally_ , her shoulders visibly relax.  
  
“Fine,” she hisses, stepping aside to let me through. “Come. In.”  
  
I’m grinning as I brush past her and through the door and—  
  
_Whoa_ _._ The hotel suite Talon’s put her up in is pretty darn _nice_ to say the least. Usually when I stay in hotels, they only have one room, sometimes not even a shower. Sometimes they don’t even have a bed or a window. Widowmaker’s suite has a bloody _lobby_ , and a bloody _balcony_ that overlooks the city when you step through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room area, and oh look, there’s also a fancy  _crystal_   _chandelier_ hanging from the ceiling, and a freaking swede-designed _dining wing_  right there in the corner...

Oh well. At least we have a Mcdonalds there at Overwatch…  
  
“You know, love,” I say as I start making my way over to the dining area. I figure that’s where she’ll want to eat. “I must say I got a little worried after that InstaGrumps incident. Didn’t see you out in the field nor hear a peep from you for awhile. What happened?”  
  
“What do you _think_ happened?” She scowls pointedly at me.  
  
“Yeah… I figured as much.. welp, hope it wasn’t too bad… did tell ya to run…” I place the bags on the table before digging into them, methodically taking out the food and arranging them neatly on the table—a line of burgers, a cluster of fries, a row of shakes— _beautiful_.  
  
“Anyway, if you went through the reconditioning. Then how come you’re like this now?” I gesture down at all the food on the table. “Let's see, you ordered 8 special Big Macs with extra cheese and extra meat without any vegetables; three full-fat, double-chocolate milkshakes upsized with extra whip cream on top, and four packets of L-sized special curly fries with add-on paprika shakers...—what happened? They didn’t manage to beat the cravings out of you?”  
  
“Clearly not,” Widowmaker replies stiffly, wrapping her arms across her waist. “My last conditioning was nearly a month ago. Sometimes… sometimes... I relapse.” She shivers slightly. “I’ve been told to inform Talon when this happens but, sometimes my body.. yearns. It can’t be helped.” She hugs her arms tighter around her belly.  
  
I suddenly feel a strange sense of compassion for this woman. Just look at her, she can’t even eat her beloved Big Mac when she wants to. Can’t even openly indulge in a luxury as small as a burger. It should not be like this. Widowmaker deserves more.  
  
Speaking of more. Think I might have forgotten something!  
  
“Wait! Hold on a minute—!” I pat around my jacket for a bit before reaching into my pocket and digging out one last brown-bag. “Almost forgot this, love! It's your happy meal—"  
  
Widowmaker subtly perks up. “What’s the toy?” She asks, almost eagerly, cutting me off mid-sentence.  
  
“ _Of course_ you know what it is,” I’m beaming as I’m saying this, my hands delving into the bag and pulling out a small, brightly colored orange figurine. “Cheers luv! Cal’vry’s ere!” I mimic myself in an excessively high-pitched voice as I present her with an Overwatch Tracer collectible wrapped in clear plastic.  
  
(Yes. Mcdonalds has been offering Overwatch figurines with their happy meals, that’s how popular we are right now! It sells, but they are not politically endorsed though.)  
  
“ _Merrrde_.” Widowmaker cries out softly as she closes her eyes, as though in great pain. “ _Merrrde,”_ she repeats.  
  
“Are you… are you alright, love?”  
  
Shaking her head, Widowmaker doesn’t reply. Only proceeds to mutter a string of fluent French phrases under her breath, all too soft for me to catch. Probably not anything good, because when she next looks up at me, her amber eyes are _burning._ Literally, they  _burn_.  
  
“You crétin,” she bites out. “ _Imbécile."_  
  
“Hey! Hey! What did I do?! That was unwarranted!"  
  
"It's the _toy_ ," she's saying this like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "The _toy,_ " her voice chokes up, and she suddenly looks overwhelmed.  
  
"What is wrong with the toy?" I ask, feeling rather puzzled. "I was told the Tracer collectibles are the bestsellers! And look, they’re really cute aren't they?” I look down at the toy in my hand—it's a tiny pop vinyl Tracer—really very cute, very well made. They did a pretty good job with the hair and the eyes, I must say, really captured the essence. This figurine has my stamp of approval and I can’t imagine anyone not liking it.  
  
“What is _wrong_ is that—I _specifically_ asked for the _Bastion_ collectible.” Widowmaker rears her head up at me, hissing.  
  
“Oh you did?" I bite my lips. "Um..  _Oops_. Must not have gotten that order down… but hey, look on the bright side! A Tracer toy’s good too!” I pass the toy to her. She takes it in her hands and… hurls it cruelly against the wall.

“Foolish girl!” _Clunk._ The toy hits the wall, it bounces; hits the ground, it bounces again. “Foolish girl! I already have twenty of these! What I really needed was that _Bastion_ to complete my Overwatch summer set.” She buries her head in her hands. I have honestly never seen her look more miserable.  
  
“Wait, how come you have twenty Tracers?”  
  
“ _What do you think?_ ” She snaps. _“_ No one _wants_ them that’s _why!_ That's why they have a lot of it available—“  
  
_Hey! Not true! A lot of people want them, that’s why they shipped a lot of it!_ I’m thinking this defensively in my head.  
  
“—and I always, _always_  end up with them,” she grates out bitterly. “I also have three Hanas, one Winston, two Pharahs, two Zenyattas, and one Mercy, and what I really needed was that _last_ _Bastion_ to complete my collection. Nowhere else has it. It's  _that rare_. _That rare!—_ Merde _._ This outlet I ordered from was the 24 th one I’ve called in this area. They promised me they have the last one. The last one.” She stares dejectedly down at the ground, her eyes seem to be misting over. “One month of avid collecting. One month of sneaking around Talon…” she shakes her head. “All down the drain thanks to you.”  
  
“Aww shite.” I’m starting to feel a little guilty as Widowmaker wordlessly strides past me, plonking heavily down on a chair at the dining table.  
  
Viciously, she snatches up a Big Mac from the pile, fingers making short work of the wrapper before bringing it up to her mouth, biting into it with much vigour, as if to compensate for the darkness of the emotions swirling within her.  
  
“Aww love. I really didn't know, I’m so sorry—“  
  
“VonDeven,” she says this in between a mouthful of food and a gurgle of shake. “VonDeven…” she holds up a hand.  
  
Looking at the woman now, voraciously eating. Voraciously eating _a lot_  because she has no other way of dealing with her wellspring of hidden emotions, I feel my heart cracking and splintering into a million tiny pieces.  
  
_What should I do now?_  
  
“Um… well then," I say. "I really ought to be headin' off, love." I start inching towards the door. “Will you… will you still be here the next few days?”  
  
She doesn’t reply me. Just continues attacking her burgers and fries with a strange sort of methodical precision.  
  
I repeat myself, voice raised a notch: “Will you still be here the next few days, love?”  
  
Eventually, she nods without looking up at me.  
  
“Good,” I tell her. “Good. Don’t—don’t you go anywhere, love!”  
  
_Don't you go anywhere! Cause I’m gonna get you that last Bastion toy if it’s the last thing I do, dammit!_  
  
I'm gonna get it for you, even if I have to fly the whole world to search for it!

 


End file.
